Nights Become Days
by pepperxxx
Summary: Sherlock isn't a drug addict. To be a drug addict, you have to be addicted, right? He could stop anytime. Sherlock's life before the consulting detective and the friends he had before he met John - drugs.


**Nights Become Days, by Pepperxxx**

Ok! So this fic was actually inspired by the amazing film Trainspotting, which I suggest you watch provided you're eighteen plus, and the song Nights Become Days, by Frank Turner.

This fic is about Sherlock on drugs, about five or six years before he met John. Warnings for drug abuse and self-injury.

* * *

_We soared in the dawn from the roof of the bar_

_When nights become days then you've gone too far_

_We listened to songbirds and rush hour cars and welcomed in the day_

_Peace in London in summertime is great,_

_On days like this I feel like I can escape _

_And things that I've done and mistakes that I've made,_

_I can wash it all away_

-Nights Become Days, Frank Turner-

Sherlock Christopher Holmes is twenty five years, seven months and fourteen days old. It is unlikely that he will make it to twenty six.

He lives upon the shiny white floor of a beautiful diamond palace, disguised as a crusty brown tower block in Eastern London. He rarely leaves, except for trifling matters such as occasional sustenance and cigarettes. And drugs. _(Only, say the last bit quietly, so Mycroft doesn't hear.) _

He can never really remember how it all started. Only that it will probably end sometime soon and therefore, he should make the most out of it while he's breathing.

It's all a kind of fucked up blur of colours and names and faces. Pretty girls and pretty lies and a lot of telling Mycroft that everything's fine. That he just needs space and that's why he never answers phone calls anymore and avoids security cameras. The drugs just sort of happened, because all of a sudden all the shit is washed away.

_So rough and yet, so gentle, at the same time. _

Indeed.

That is as much as he remembers. Now all he knows is that he is here now. And it doesn't matter how he got here. Or where "here" even is anymore.

And so, smiling detachedly, he lifts up the small hypodermic with great care. The dusty brown liquid feels irrationally heavy in his hands, though he knows it is only in his head. With mildly shaking fingers, he selects a vein and cautiously – after all, there is no rush – (yet) jabs it in, pushing down on the plunger. Relief spreads through his bloodstream and he sighs, relaxing against the wall.

Giving up on the rest of his lifeline, he drops his hands, leaving the needle in place. An unknown bloke sitting nearby gives him a lopsided grin and hopelessly swings an arm round Sherlock's shoulders. He promptly misses, and ends up on the floor. Sherlock swivels his head round slowly, as the man reaches out for a cigarette.

Sherlock lies back slowly, sighing in pleasure, sucking on his own smoke. He gives another slow nod, closing his eyelids over dilated pupils. So peaceful. His mind can finally rest.

Expertly sliding out the syringe, it drops to the floor, somehow leaving the world behind.

And right now, the world is a better place.

* * *

Rather disappointedly, he comes back down to reality again later on, lying on his coat with nothing but an aching head and a sick, crampy feeling in his stomach.

It always saddens him to know that it _is _reality, and not just some sickening dream world brought on by heroin. It happens again. And again. And again, because frankly the world never works the way you want it to. Eventually, it is simply another terrifying spiral, in a circle that never seems to end.

He finds that using always brings him clarity. The peace feels like it will last forever, and when it doesn't, he shoots up. It isn't that he's a drug addict, because to be a drug addict, you have to be addicted, right? Sherlock isn't. He could stop anytime. He just hasn't done so yet.

_And you never will. _

Shut up.

But even so, his methods of use do change, after a while. He takes to stocking up and sitting alone in his empty flat, wondering where the rest of his life has got to.

It begins to take quite a lot of effort to move these days, so he avoids that in general. He just lies there on his unwashed mattress, smoking and waiting for the next fix.

It doesn't take altogether that long for him to feel the sudden realisation that he is probably going to die sometime soon.

* * *

The next day comes along like a bad smell, but against all laws of physics, gravity and common sense, Sherlock does manage to crawl off his mattress that morning, feeling shaky and nauseous and really, _really _dizzy.

But he's run out of cigarettes.

He decides that he needs a Plan Of Action. (In capital letters and everything.) He will go out. He will buy cigarettes. He will buy food. He will not take a hit. Easy.

And so, he slowly walks to the bathroom, where he washes, shaves and even rubs at his hair for a while, to try and dislodge some of the dirt and grease. It isn't particularly effective, but he feels better for it.

Pulling on his coat, he stumbles out of the door, ignoring a terrified looking pensioner with apparent attitude problems and a recently dead husband.

He also avoids the lift. (He fears that he will become trapped inside forever if he does, and there wouldn't be any drugs in heaven.)

When he makes his way down the stairs, he only stumbles twice and that seems like quite an achievement.

Sherlock gets outside and nearly collapses, due to a disgusting wave of heat. Since when was it summer, anyway?

He leans against the wall; his coat is sticking to him. He is pretty tempted to pull it off, but there is a suspicious stain on his T-shirt and he dares not think about what his arms currently look like, so he carries on anyway, trying to shake off the feeling that this might not be a good idea.

He reaches the off-licence faster than usual and he buys cigarettes. He's clean enough to realise that he hasn't really ingested proper food in several days and it dimly registers that this is a Bad Thing, so he sets out to be a responsible adult, and helps himself to a sandwich on the way out.

_Mycroft would be proud._

Shut up.

Feeling incredibly disjointed, Sherlock wanders a little further down the road. His head is currently spinning off somewhere into the abyss and the atrocious sun is so goddamn bright that he can barely see. He groans, feeling like he really might puke this time.

He spins around slowly, trying to make sense of it all. Only he feels so nauseous _and this really doesn't seem like a good idea anymore… _

Sherlock leans against the wall, clutching at his head and moans quietly, wishing that the situation would disappear, preferably in a puff of diamorphine hydrochloride. He opens an eye to see if anyone is hiding some from him, but no such luck.

A voice manages to pull him out of his stupor and he tilts his head towards the noise. A child is standing there. A girl. Six – no, seven years old. He glares at her, telling her with his eyes to _go away, _butshe isn't fazed. He sighs, and gives up.

"What do you want?"

He stares the child down and a strange sound comes out of its mouth. After a few seconds, he realises that it must be trying to speak to him, in its own garbled way. He shakes his head, knocking his ear with one hand. "What?"

"Your shoes."

"What about them?" He says, his voice slurring a little.

"You aint got any."

Sherlock looks down. Oh. He knew something was different. "I suppose you're right," He agrees.

She grins then, and giggles a little. Sherlock holds a hand up to his pounding head, wincing slightly.

"You're funny."

"So are you."

"What's your name?"

"Sherlock." He dimly realises that this is probably the first mildly coherent conversation that he's had with another human being (the wall doesn't count) in a while. "Shouldn't you, um, be with someone?" He thinks for a second. "A mother, maybe? Or a… bear? Isn't that what children play with these days? "

"Mum's over there. Talking. It's really boring."

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but is quite rudely interrupted. He locates the source of the noise and his tired brain manages to translate it for him.

"You know I told you not to talk to strangers-" Oh. The girl's mother. Dull. He zones out, but is quickly dragged back to reality again when she turns on him. "You! What do you think you are doing, attacking my daughter?"

He stares at her.

"You just stay away, you hear me?"

_Of course he hears you. The whole street can probably hear you._

Sherlock looks at her blankly, and she turns away. Taking her daughter by the hand, she begins to walk away, muttering: "Hopeless bloody junkies."

Before Sherlock can properly register what he's doing, he is walking up to the woman and taking her by the arm. Not hard, but enough to get her attention.

"I am not a junkie."

"Get off me, you freak!"

"I am not a junkie!"

She pulls away roughly and marches away, her child looking back at Sherlock.

He runs.

* * *

Back at his flat, he paces for a while and shakes a bit. Then he leaves. He pulls on his boots this time, slips his coat over his shoulders and then he leaves. He goes across town on foot – the tube would be a waste of money. Money that could be spent on precious relief. He is completely exhausted, but he can't stop now. The need for a hit is so strong that by the last quarter mile, he has completely given up on the exhaustion and he runs, as fast as he can while in this state.

When he reaches the place, an ugly looking building covered in graffiti and surrounded by over flowing litter, he stops, trying to catch his breath while lighting a cigarette at the same time. His hands are shaking so badly though, that he nearly drops it. Starting a fire outside a drug den would not make him particularly popular with anyone. Not even Mycroft.

He makes a quick note about how bad an idea that is and drops it in his Mind Palace.

Sherlock gives up on the cigarette and takes a deep breath. He shakes his head slightly and then shoves open the door with his hand. He is greeted by a face, covered in a heavy layer of foundation and thick black eye liner. Seeing that it is Sherlock, the face smiles and the door opens wider, revealing a skinny girl of about fourteen, smoking a cigarette. She looks him up and down and then blows a steady stream of smoke at him.

"Hey Shezza."

Sherlock looks at her blankly, and then remembers that it's her name for him.

"Hello, Jessica."

She laughs at this. "You always was posh, wasn't you?"

Sherlock pushes past, walking down the corridor. Jessica slams the door shut quickly, immediately cutting out most of the light. She skips after him, grabbing his arm. He stops, peering down at her, squinting in the gloom.

"You look like shit." She says earnestly. "Here. Take this." She thrusts her cigarette at him. He takes it gratefully, taking a deep drag and blowing the smoke back at her. She smiles, breathing it in.

He offers it back, but she shakes her head. "Keep it. It's fine. Lou gave 'em to me. I reckon he made some good deal today!"

Sherlock smiles, if a little lopsidedly. Lou is Jessica's dad. (Probably.) He isn't a lot older than she is, to be honest, but he knows where to get smack and that's what counts. Though never seen without a cigarette (or on a good day, a joint) in his hand, he stays away from hard drugs. This is probably due to seeing what it does to the people in his company.

He walks on, a spring in his step. It is a surprisingly good cigarette; Lou must have made a really good deal today. He heads upstairs, looking for the other man. Peeking his head through a door-less doorway, he spies his target, sitting in a large black swivel chair, spinning around aimlessly.

This looks quite odd, seeing as Lou is tall and muscular with a shaved head. He is the sort of man that it is hard to miss in a crowd.

Lou grins when he sees Sherlock, showing off a set of impressively yellow teeth. He hops up, waving his cigarette (joint?) at him. Sherlock stumbles in. He pulls out his money and counts it out carelessly.

Lou nods and sets back down in his chair with another spin. (Definitely a joint.) "Alright, my friend. Feel free… to help yourself to a piece of this… noble… floor." He reaches into a pocket of his Navy tracksuit bottoms and tosses the bag at Sherlock, who surprisingly while in this state, catches it.

Lou doesn't say anything else. Just waves a hand at him and shuts his eyes, taking another deep drag and turning his chair away.

Sherlock finds himself lying against the wall hours later, without any idea how he got there. Naturally, he takes another hit.

* * *

Sherlock runs, generally. From life, Mycroft, death. He has always been good at this, due to his long legs and wiry frame, but before he started properly living, he never really had to. And now, here he is, sprinting for his freedom along yet another alleyway. He gasps for breath and slows a little, inwardly praying to a deity he doesn't believe in, that Mycroft's men will please have lost him by now.

He looks around at the gloomy twilight. He can barely see anything while standing in the shadow of the buildings, though and he squints, trying to make sense of it all.

Suddenly, a shadow detaches itself from the rest and grabs him, shouting out. Sherlock's immediate reaction is to attack and he does so, kicking out at the other man, but he is too strong. This man is then joined by several more and Sherlock finds himself violently slammed down to the ground face down, with his arm wrenched up his back. He struggles and tries to kick back, but the men pin him down.

He breathes heavily, trying to keep from swallowing any dirt. He hears a voice in his ear, muttering: "If you had just come with your brother as asked, then you wouldn't be in this situation now, would you?"

Sherlock grunts in pain, biting back a reply. Mycroft's men hold him down for a few minutes longer after that (some sort of power play perhaps) and then they haul him to his feet and begin to march him away from the alleyway, keeping a tight grip on his shoulders. He can see a car there, the usual black sedan, and he weighs up his options. No doubt his nemesis will have told them his strengths, but still…

_They let you catch your breath._

Twisting under his assailants' arms, and spinning around them, he makes a break for it. Hearing there feet smacking down on the pavement, he runs as fast as he can and heads down the road.

He takes a quick turning right and feeling a rush of adrenaline, can't help grinning at the thrill. If life was like this more often, he might not even need the drugs. He ducks underneath the arm of some old granny and scatters a group of teenagers, before skidding into another alley. He pauses, then kicks up against one wall, pushing at the other with his back and subsequently levering himself into the air. He finds the next step up, and the next, and grimaces. He knows he doesn't have a lot of time to do this…

He finally grips a window ledge and tugging himself up, he kicks through the broken wooden cover and smashes into the floor. He groans, but doesn't dare get up. He may have lost them for now, but it doesn't mean they won't come back again. He decides he'll stay there the night, and head back to paradise in the morning.

* * *

Jessica is dying.

Sherlock knows it, Jessica knows it and even the ratty looking pigeon across the room knows it. He holds the girl in his arms, hugging her to his chest, trying to get her to breathe.

He turns to tell Lou, that Jessica is dying and there is nothing he can do, but he isn't here. He sighs, wishing he would just wake up from this nightmare, but he can't.

He has always known this was bound to happen. Jessica is too young to do what she does – not that anyone doing what they do is old enough for it. Her nose is bleeding heavily and she is coughing up black mucus, crying softly. "It's going to be ok," Sherlock tells her, only it isn't, and it won't be. She is going to die and there is nothing he can do. He looks around, calling for help, but there is no one there. He analyses the situation and comes up with:

a. He is high.

b. He has no phone and therefore no means to call an ambulance.

c. Jessica hasn't either.

d. He has no idea of where he is.

e. He is holding a half dead teenager, slowly bleeding to death from the nose and mouth.

She whimpers and he holds her tightly, rubbing her back. She looks at him blearily. "Am I gonna die, Shezza?"

Sherlock bites his lip and whispers, "No." He hates to lie, but Jessica nods and relaxes, muttering; "That's good." She grips his coat in her hand and coughs again, bringing up sticky liquorice coloured mucus. "I don't want to see Mum again."

Sherlock doesn't know what to say to that, so he just hugs her, trying to breathe through his mouth and not his nose.

"Hit?" She says drowsily, and he gives it to her, because that's what a dying junkie wants and he should know.

He closes his eyes and allows himself to drift into a half sleep.

* * *

It's all downhill from there. Terrifying thoughts that chase him constantly; waking nightmares that last for days. Long nights spent in cold basement flats, lying awake for days with strangers and so called friends. And slowly, Sherlock feels himself slipping away.

He ties a tourniquet with quick fingers, before tapping hard at his arm for a vein. Finding his target, he stabs roughly, feeling satisfied with the pain. Sherlock's fingers scrabble for the plunger, pushing it down as far as it will go. He wants – no, needs – more. Reaching the end of the drug, he furiously glares at it, savagely ripping out the syringe, and hurling it across the room. Sherlock watches his arm with a sort of morbid fascination as the blood pools and dribbles down his arm.

Sherlock pulls on his coat again with the sleeve rolled up, ignoring the steady drip as blood slowly pulses out of his torn vein. He can't feel it. He stares. It really is such a beautiful colour. It's crimson against his white skin and he watches as it starts to clot.

Suddenly, he has a ridiculously brilliant idea. He takes his penknife from his coat pocket and gently pulls the blade across his skin. It barely tears and he glares at it. He goes again, desperately pushing the blade in deeply and pulling it along. His skin tears this time and he watches with a sense of self-satisfaction as the thin, white line opens and beads of blood exit the wound.

He watches it dribble down and then sucks it like a vampire. He tastes the blood on his tongue. Letting the wound fall away from his mouth, he watches the red spill out and mix with his saliva.

Lou is watching him, a slight frown on his face. Sherlock watches him back, feeling a million miles away and yet so close, at the same time.

The older man seemingly makes a decision and comes over to his friend (acquaintance) looking concerned. "Sherlock, are you… are you trying to kill yourself, like?" It's a serious question. Lou doesn't sound angry, just a little freaked out.

Sherlock considers this, but then shakes his head. If he was going to kill himself then he would use a much better method of doing it then cutting. The cuts may bleed, but not that much.

Lou nods awkwardly. "Oh. That's good then. Ok. Y'know, I'm here if you, er-"

"You're not very good at this, Lou."

Lou nods. "But if you need someone to talk to, I'm here." By way of answering, Sherlock stabs his at arm with the knife, and then rips it out again, barely missing the vein. Lou backs away very quickly.

Standing up abruptly, Sherlock yanks his coat sleeve back down, not caring about the blood soaking into the fabric. You can barely see it now anyway. He marches out of the room, shoving a bag of coke in his pocket for later. Lighting a cigarette, he makes his way down the stairs and out of the building.

He frowns at the now-dark sky; night is coming faster than he remembers. He stops and checks the wounds again. Luckily, the blood has mostly clotted by now. The stab wound will probably scar, but the others are moderately superficial. There is no previous scarring there, so they should clear up soon enough. Pleased with his deductions, he walks on.

Walking down the street at two-thirty-three in the morning, he wonders how it all came to this. He is currently walking down an almost unknown street of London in the dark, high as a kite in a coat saturated in blood from a self-inflicted stab wound.

Leaning against the wall, he pulls his knife from his pocket and looks at it. The blade, surprisingly, is clean and untarnished, but for a smudge on the handle, barely visible in the dim street light. He supposes the blood must have come after he had pulled the blade away. He holds it against the carotid artery in his neck.

_Painful way to die._

He ignores the voice and prepares to make the cut, but his hands are shaking and he can't bring himself to do it. "Sentiment," He says to himself quietly. "Fucking sentiment."

_Coward._

He puts the blade back into the inside pocket of his coat slowly, and then shakily collapses against the wall. His heart is beating out of his chest and he wonders if this is the moment he has been waiting for; that he is dying right now and nobody, not Mycroft and certainly not Lou is going to be able to save him this time. Lights dance menacingly before his eyes.

"Hey, are you alright?"

Sherlock squints upwards, seeing a blurry face above him. He stares at the face, which appears to have glowing eyes.

Considering the question, he shakes his head. "No." The words are heavy in his throat.

"Should I call an ambulance?" The face leans down to talk to him, looking him in the eyes. (It's really quite distracting.)

"No." He stands up now, gratefully taking the strangers arm. He pulls away after he has successfully gotten off the floor and leans against the wall.

"Do you need some help getting home? I'm a policeman, you can trust me."

_He's lying!_

Sherlock stares at him. He hadn't really noticed.

_Get away from him, moron._

Alright.

Sherlock backs away slightly. "No, I-I'm fine."

He walks on, trying his best not to let the man see him shaking. When he is far enough away, he runs, as fast as he can run.

He turns another street and another, and another, until he is too exhausted to run anymore. He folds over, panting heavily, feeling blood, sweet and sickly and pouring from his nose in torrents, covering his face and hands. He holds his coat sleeve to it, trying to stem the flow. Has he pushed it too far this time?

Still trying to stem the bleeding, he stands up slowly, taking deep, careful breaths. Looking around at his surroundings, he realises he has no idea where he is. He sees that he is in a suburban area, surrounded by cosy looking semi-detached houses and practical looking family cars. He walks over to one of said cars and quickly scratches out a rough map of Eastern London.

Sherlock gives up, and gives in. Reaching into his coat pocket, he throws the bag of whitish coloured powder into someone's garden pond. Smiling sadly, he walks away.

It takes him no more than half an hour to go where he needs to go. He finds a shop and stands opposite the security camera on the corner. After approximately twenty seven seconds, the camera swivels round to face him and he gives a tight lipped smile, staring at the ground. All he has to do now is wait.

Mycroft doesn't say anything. He simply accepts Sherlock's head on his shoulder and gently helps wipe the blood away.

* * *

I think there will probably be an epilogue too, or maybe another chapter, I don't know yet. I apologise if I got things wrong, because I have never done drugs and all my knowledge comes from the internet.

Please rate and review – I will be sending you internet hugs! :)


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